Hydrangea clouds are loosed and floaty
on the black pool. She’s making a hard job
of it, the little girl with the wooden spoon,
creaming the butter and the sugar. Go easy,
sweetheart. Little bubbles exploding soft
like years later when he licks and licks and little
bomb blasts like pain that must be entered
into, like delight. Her knuckles whiten,
her elbow is rigid with blessings: lavender shortbread
and honey ice-cream and all manner of berries.
I can only understand you when you speak with an American
accent. She’s watched it all before – flower,
fruit and fall. Aha, so that’s how it’s done!
Still wondering how on earth it is to be done.
This poem is part of the Tuesday Poem Scheme